The Eighth Deadly Sin
by Robika
Summary: [ONESHOT] Christine dies and goes to Heaven. But where is her Angel of Music? Rated T


**This is a sketch I wrote a few months ago, but didn't have the courage to put it up because it's really weird. I don't own Phantom of the Opera, and I'm sorry if I offend your religion!

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** After battling tuberculosis for many months, Christine died in her bed at home with Raoul at her side. Christine felt herself rising, and turned around to see Raoul crying over her lifeless shell of a body. Her soul was now a free spirit, and she was rising to God's kingdom in the sky. Elation filled her as she realized she would see her Angel of Music in Heaven. She would sing for him, her lungs unrestrained by earthy viruses and bacteria. Her soul passed through the clouds. "_Holy Angel in Heaven blessed, my spirit longs with thee to rest!" _she quoted _Faust _as she rose above the clouds and entered Heaven.

"Where is my Angel?" she wondered aloud as she looked around at all of the divine figures of Heaven. Everyone wore pure white gowns, such as herself, and had the traditional halos and wings and the like. Christine shut her eyes and listened very hard for the sound of her Angel's voice. Instead, she heard the sound of a lyre, and opened her eyes. "My Angel?" she cried out to the masked figure playing a lyre.

"I am no Angel," the masked figure replied. "I am the Muse Thalia, the Flourishing. Muse of comedy. May I be of assistance, newcomer?"

Christine was confused. There were no Muses in her religion. "I'm looking for the Angel of Music, can you summon him?"

"I know no Angel of Music. I will call Euterpe, Muse of music. She will know what to do." With that, Thalia plucked her lyre in a sweet melody and sang,

"If only this lyre was as sweet

As Euterpe's flute, whom we shall meet."

"Presently!" called a new voice. "I am Muse Euterpe, the Giver of Pleasure. How may I help you, fair maiden?" A woman appeared with a flute in hand.

Christine cried in vain, "No! No! She is no Angel of Music! Where is Erik?" she buried her face in her hands and wept.

"Thalia, have I just been insulted?" asked Euterpe.

"I do believe so, my friend. Shall I cheer you up with a joyful poem?" Thalia asked as she scowled at Christine's prostrate figure.

"No, Thalia, I do not wish to be consoled." Euterpe answered. She put her flute to her lips and began a dark melody. It seemed to feed off of Christine's disappointment, reciprocating it back to her tenfold. Christine's depression grew as the melody began stronger, suggesting at hints of anger and jealousy. Thalia joined in on her lyre, as merry a melody as a mocking, taunting, teasing child.

Christine was encased in the music. She saw Erik for the first time, beckoning her to follow him. The music was a wild animal, untrusting and wary. Christine timidly followed Erik, unable to resist the pull of the music. Her limbs were heavy, she couldn't walk anymore. Erik carried her slight frame in his arms down to his lair. She smelled his spicy scent, intoxicating her further. A drum joined the music, a steady beat in the background. Christine fought to stay awake. Erik laid her down on a soft bed with silk sheets. The drumbeat pulsed in her ears. The music accelerated, building. Christine's head was spinning. She felt Erik's hand on her cheek. The skin on his hand was rough and dry. The flute sang in its highest octave, sharp bursts of sound that were almost painful. Christine gathered her strength to grab at Erik's shirt to prevent him from leaving. The drum was deafening. Urgency flooded Christine's mind as she pulled Erik to her. Her body was wide awake, though her mind was clouded and pleading to fade into unconsciousness. The drumbeat was echoed in her body: mouth, breasts, and groin. Erik was the remedy. The lyre rang out in a feeble attempt to keep peace, but the drum overpowered it. Christine pulled Erik on her, eyes drooping but fingers diligently unbuttoning his shirt. Necessity and desire drove her. Her skin burned where he touched her. The flute pumped out an amorous melody in ecstasy. Their lips locked in a burst of loving flame. Christine's eyes flew open, and stared into ice blue eyes. Raoul's eyes.

The lyre struck a disgusting augmented chord. Christine screamed and pushed Raoul away from her. The drums stopped, leaving Christine feeling exposed. The flute let out a wail that matched Christine's longing for Erik. She shut her eyes against the image of Raoul. When she opened them, she glimpsed Thalia and Euterpe laughing at her crumpled form as she fell.

The sensation was sickening. She fell through the clouds, past her own funeral on Earth and into the dark depths of Hell. Alone. She landed on cold, damp dirt. Hurt. Where were the fires? Frustration. She called for Erik in her despair. Cold. Christine tore at her hair, and ran to find some means of escape. Anguish. There were no walls in her prison, nothing but a desolate moor. Guilt. "Erik!" she cried. "Erik!"

A hand wrapped around her mouth as another pressed her body to another's. She tried to scream for help, but she couldn't make a sound.

"How did my Angel come to be here?" asked a concerned and very familiar voice.

Christine turned around as he released her. "Erik!" that magical word escaped her lips right before they pressed upon his.

The fires were found. They ignited in a sudden burst of energy. Desire. Walls of flame rose around the couple as they embraced. The drums started again, insistent and unbearably forceful. The lovers made something out of Hell that put Heaven to shame. Satisfaction. The flames consumed their clinging bodies. Resolution.


End file.
